Gigi.

Hello there.  I didn't actually intend to take an internet break, but the stress level at work had hit crisis level so I buckled down, hoping if I put in enough hours I could breathe in 2014.  Then there were the usual winter pathogens, Matt went to Montana for a week for work, and in the few quiet moments I had I, frankly, ended up watching a lot of TV because it required no conscious thought or social pleasantries.

Also, on December 4th, the day before Nelson Mandela died and 11 days before her 95th birthday, my Gigi died.  My dad called me that morning at work but I didn't leave or collapse dramatically onto the floor.  The holidays weren't cancelled and the laundry hasn't stopped.  But I can hardly bear to talk about it - not with Matt, not with my various siblings, and certainly not during holiday parties with well meaning relatives.  I don't want to read sweet condolence notes or discuss memorial plans.  I'm holding this in a small tight ball deep in my gut because if I expose it to light it might just crumble to ash and blow away.

There is so much tragedy in the world, so much injustice and violence, no one will be especially moved at the death of someone nearly 95 years old, nor my grief thereof.   Mandela was celebrated the world over but no one said he passed too soon.  We all leave, eventually, and she had lived well and long.  She would have preferred to die last January, after her aneurysm, but she died peacefully in her home, cared for and loved.  There was no news coverage, no presidential musings, but my world has shrunk and darkened.

Ironically, despite living in Los Angeles for 60 plus years, she loved dreary, rainy days.  She would have loved Seattle.  

A friend of mine, facing her own loss, quoted Kate Braestrup, "One hundred percent of all relationships end: paternal, maternal, spousal, avuncular, friendly, or filial; one way or another, you will lose everyone you love, everyone you cannot bear to lose. 

Everyone you cannot bear to lose.  She was my rock and safe haven.  I moved around so much as a kid my most vivid memories are actually of her home, her magnolia tree and camellias out back, her favorite chair, her every room.  Even the 7-11 at the bottom of her hill.  She could whip up a gourmet dinner out of nothing and was the only person ever who could cajole me into eating broccoli.  Because of her I believe in the transformative power of garnishes - even her simplest meals were beautiful.  Just add parsley.  Maybe a slice of lemon.  

I recently finished the second to last jar of her plum chutney.  I can't decide whether to save the last jar in perpetuity or eat it alone, strait, in my closet.  I made bacon and for the first time saved the grease, (though my sister will be happy to know it's in the fridge - Gigi's jar was kept under the stove).  I drank a gin and tonic, her favorite, out of the fancy glasses she gave Matt after our trip together to Ireland.  I did not do anything on her birthday, except pretend it wasn't.  I sent out cards this year, for the first time since 2010, and updated my address list but couldn't delete her name.  I kept thinking I'd forgotten someone when Christmas shopping, and kept staring at my lists, until I realized it was her.  She was entirely impossible to buy anything for. 

Ireland, 2000

I just realized my daughter squinches up her face just like Gigi when she grins.  

I cannot bear to think what will become of her house or her beloved lemon tree.  And I suddenly understand why relatives become grabby after people die.  It's not the money, it's the need to cling to what's left, to grab the shadow before it fades.  Salvaging her house isn't remotely within our budget but I wonder if she'd parceled out her cookbooks, her drawer of clipped out recipes, or her little broiler.  She'd been labeling stuff with her grandkids' names for years, planned bequests via sharpie & masking tape, but I doubt she thought what I'd treasure most is the memory of our meals together.  

Braestrup continues with, "One response to this appalling reality is to posit the existence of heaven, a place where everyone gets to be together again, just like the old days...In the meantime, however, what are those of us still here on earth to do in the face of loss?...Love more. Start with your siblings, or your spouse, or your parents, but don't stop there. Love whoever needs what you have; love the ones who have been placed in your path. It seems so obvious, doesn't it? It is the kind of knowledge we all should know, and instead even the wisest need reminders. Fortunately, the reminders do come, from sages and prophets and out of the mouths of babes: If your heart breaks, let it break open. Love more."

I could tell you what an extraordinary woman my Gigi was, but it all fades next to the fact that this was how she lived.  My dad, one of the least saccharine people you'd ever meet, wrote she "had absolutely no quid pro quo about life.  You just felt love.  All give, no take. A lesson for us all."

Dammit.

I Run 4

Speaking of communities and running (ugh, that's not even funny yet), a few months ago I signed up with I Run 4.  The idea is simple - runners will run for and connect with those who can't, mostly via photos and FB posts.  It started with one guy and an offhand comment and now has almost 9000 members.

And, I thought, a great potential for cheesy inspiration porn.

But I have a vast sucking need for motivation.  Matt is more likely to offer me ice cream and a warm blanket than hand me my shoes and such is the magnitude of my sloth-dom, I've been known to actually do laundry while procrastinating.

(though that doesn't necessary mean that I will)

I like the idea that I run.  I'm proud of my race bibs and calf muscles (if you squint you can't see the pasty whiteness or spider veins).  I love the post run high and sometimes, if I'm very lucky, I feel stronger than all my problems during, but putting on my shoes and taking that first long stride is a Big Deal, every time.  So I sign up for races.  

I am a huge sucker for these silly motivational memes.

And I signed up to run for someone else.
Because you know what I really need is more responsibility.

But I also thought it might be a nice thing to do for someone, since we have no money to donate or time to volunteer.  And, squabbles and random snarkiness (auto correct changed that to snakiness.  That too) aside, the Down syndrome and blogging communities provide terrific support & resources.  My daughter's genetic quirk comes with monthly playgroups, of all things, and all the people I've stalked met in the larger special needs community have come thru this space.  What do you do if you don't write and are dealing with something rare, something that doesn't have three or four competing national organizations?

Not to suggest there aren't other fabulous community supports in this age of the internet, but we are on a well trodden path.

I had steeled myself for a barrage of special angel comments but I've seen very little smarminess.  It's light, fun, & supportive - almost like a daily play group - but one that operates in THIS world, the one with hospital stays, surgeries, and occasional gut wrenching loss.  There is a religious base (which I'm happy to ignore) and there can be some awkward, non people first terms but I'd never thought much about the language of disability either, 6 years ago.  I think there's a tendency to bristle and get cranky when we wander out into the world and find the gen pop isn't quite as involved/understanding/PC as we want them to be, but that knowledge doesn't spring organically from nothingness.  Connections and familiarity are the fastest, surest way to that understanding we crave.  People without a single tie to the disability/special needs community are signing up to run for strangers, getting to know them & their families. Running is hard and nothing kills the smell of pity faster than a blister, yet it keeps growing. Y'all know I don't do rainbows & unicorns but that does warm my frozen, cynical heart a bit.    

Weirdly, and last paragraph notwithstanding, I haven't signed up The Girl up to be matched. Partly because I run for her too, but mostly because I think she can run for herself.  Just like Jimmy Jenson.  Now if there was a group for the non-verbal…

I was matched with an adorable little boy who probably isn't old enough to appreciate my sporadic 5 milers (or my fastest ever half marathon last month - whoot!), but he likes pictures of my girl and I'm one more person in the world who cares for him.  We could all use one more person, couldn't we?

I also doubt he appreciated all my artsy outdoor shots, before it got cold and rainy and I retreated to my treadmill.  Before I found out Murphy shouldn't be running (I wonder if anyone would want to run for my dog?).  But forcing myself to look for photo opportunities during my runs, to be present, was a beautiful gift.

Thank you, Robert - IRUN4U!

Now I just need my knees to hold out.

(photo quality is a different issue)